Kage Baker had a favourite post-Dickens Saturday night dinner: Pillsbury biscuits. You know, the sort that comes in a mailing tube and you whack it on the edge of the kitchen counter and it explodes in raw biscuits. And then you bake them fresh and hot, and really: they are a wonderful late night snack.
I am sitting here now eating some, sharing them with Harry the Parrot, who likes to sit on my shoulder and get crumbs in my ear; and whom I prefer to have sit on his perch and eat in some slightly more civilized manner (that doesn’t involved biscuits in my hair).
We’ve dined like this on Saturdays for years now; the amazing Rettinhouses, who open their home with me for Extreme Christmas, are partaking of our special nursery supper as well. Kage and Neassa always liked chocolate milk with theirs …
Second Saturday has gone spectacularly well, with crowds so thick and heavy and happy that walking through the streets is like fighting a tide of salmon (with champagne and peppermints). I myself spent the day in civvies, directorially observing and checking sight-ines: which appear to be perfect through the windows of the Parlour. It was splendid to watch my folks in their glory while hiding in plain sight.
My sister Kimberly and I drove up this weekend, through the tule fog and haunted sunsets of a winter Friday night – more of those visions later. But tonight Kimberly went to the Hallelujah Chorus at Fezziwig’s with me – for the first time in, oh, 20-odd years. She last attended before her son Michael was born, and we were astounded and stunned by the spectacle; we still were tonight. We both wept, but we made it through: good memories.
Tomorrow I shall be back in purple satin, swanning about like the Plum Pudding Fairy. I’ll leave the beautiful dream of Dickens in late afternoon, to make it back to LA by midnight – dreaming all the way of hot biscuits and post-art contentment.